


A Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven

by emynn



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crying, Discussion of triggers/trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, I'm trying to be cautious with tags since I know the content may be difficult for some, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Whump, and features a very loving relationship, but I promise ultimately this fic is just soft and tender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-28 23:10:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20434019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emynn/pseuds/emynn
Summary: “The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.” -- John Milton,Paradise Lost





	A Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Holly for holding my hand through all of this. <3

“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.” -- John Milton, _Paradise Lost_

Crowley hates the sound of whistling. 

Although _hate_ is probably the wrong word.

Hate generally implies some level of conscious thought. One hates the smell of the fish market, or irritatingly dense customers who are evidently incapable of taking a hint and realizing they are _not _wanted in the bookshop, not now, not ever.

No, hate isn’t the right word.

Frightened by?

That’s not quite it either, although it’s closer. He’s not scared the way someone may be scared of thunderstorms or a particularly long-toothed rat. Rather, he’s scared as that rat would be of a hawk soaring overhead. It’s a fear that comes from deep inside, woven between his cells with a damp, sticky thread. From the moment that rat sets one tiny pink paw outside, he knows to fear the shadow the hawk casts. 

It doesn’t matter that he’s never seen the hawk up close.

It doesn’t matter that he’s never seen the hawk swoop down and snatch up his mother or brother or cousin. 

The shadow is enough. 

The shadow is the threat.

The shadow awakens that primal instinct to _run_, to _escape_, to seek safety anywhere but here. And as the shadow grows rapidly denser, that instinct builds upon itself, layer by layer, crushing the rat with the weight of it, so that by the time he feels talons pierce through his soft chest, he doesn’t know which he fell victim to: the hawk itself, or the terror that preceded it.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. 

The end result is the same. 

Once, as a snake, Crowley had been cast in the role as the predator, tempting Adam and Eve to eat from the Tree of Knowledge, dooming the world to sin. 

But now, in his human body, he is the prey. And it’s not celestial harmonies that threaten the demon’s existence, but a simple jaunty whistled tune. 

Not that Crowley would ever admit to such a thing. In fact, if Aziraphale were to hazard a guess, he’d say Crowley would be quite proud of himself, thinking he had never let on to the fact. And, granted, it may have taken Aziraphale a few thousand years to figure it out, and he highly doubted anyone else would have noticed. But when your closest friend is a fellow immortal being and you’ve spent the past six thousand years performing miracles, tempting humans, and preventing the would-be Armageddon, you tend to pick up on a few things.

The first time Aziraphale thought something might be amiss was in 1787, in a small pub in Galway. Crowley was there on assignment tempting some farmer or shepherd or the other, and Aziraphale had been craving a hearty mutton stew. They sat together, Aziraphale enjoying his meal, Crowley enjoying watching Aziraphale enjoying his meal as he regaled him with tales of his temptations for an hour or so. Then the barmaid returned.

“How about another?” she asked, taking their empty glasses. 

They both nodded, and she headed back to the bar, whistling as she went. 

Aziraphale turned back to Crowley. “What were you saying about the Fitzgerald brothers?”

Crowley shook his head, as if startling himself out of a daze. “Hmm?”

“The Fitzgeralds. How ever did they get the cow off their roof?”

“Oh, well they… some sort of contraption, with a whosit and a whathickey and it’s…” His voice trailed off.

“Crowley?”

“Sorry.” Crowley coughed. “Just remembered. Urgent temptation in Beijing. Really better be off. I’ll pay next time.” And with that, he was gone.

It is a memory Aziraphale keeps safely tucked away, the same as he does with his first edition of _Les Misérables_ written in its original French. Not at the forefront where it might taunt him, incessantly begging him to reveal its secrets, but in a protected place so he might revisit it when he has mastered enough of the elusive language to properly appreciate it. Every so often, on a whim, he comes back to it, thinking that perhaps this time, if he applies the scraps of knowledge and experience he’s gathered since his last attempt, he’d finally be able to make sense of what’s hidden before him in plain sight. Ultimately, though, these attempts only lead him to frustration, and he puts it away again until the next urge strikes.

It takes nearly a century before Aziraphale gathers enough new evidence to break new ground in decoding Crowley’s cryptograph. They were at a small nursery in Soho; Crowley wanted to purchase some new plants, and Aziraphale always enjoyed joining him on these journeys; the scent of the flowers and herbs mingling in the air was beyond heavenly. 

“I have to say,” Aziraphale said, “this is a rather delightful hobby you’ve taken up, Crowley. Some of God’s greatest works are the vibrant plants She created. They bring about such a sense of peace and tranquility, reminding us of the profound partnership we share with the beautiful earth we were given.”

“They remind us of something, all right.” Crowley held up a small green plant, inspecting it rather like a farmer would a prize steer at a livestock show. “This one will do.” 

He brought it over to the cash register, which was currently unattended.

“Oh, one moment, sir!” came a voice from around the corner. “I just need to wash my hands, spilled a bit of soil back here.”

Then came the sound of running water, and then the sound of whistling.

And then the sound of the ceramic pot cracking in Crowley’s hand and smashing to the floor, followed a moment later by the soft thud of the plant as it joined the broken shards.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped. “Are you all right?”

Crowley’s face was pinched, a vein throbbing near his temple. He was breathing very hard, and Aziraphale had the impression that while he may have been a mere arm’s length away from him, he might as well have been on an entirely different planet.

“Crowley!” he repeated, louder this time.

Crowley coughed. “Pot was obviously defective,” he muttered. “Quality’s utter shite these days.”

“Is everything all right, gentlemen?”

With one eye on the approaching shopgirl, and the other on Crowley still evidently frozen on the spot, Aziraphale snapped his fingers. Instantaneously, the pot re-formed, the soil hopped back into its home, and the plant was safe and secure once more.

“Here,” Aziraphale said, handing it to Crowley, “it’s as good as new.”

Crowley looked down at the plant. It was the strangest thing; he didn’t even move like himself. He was tense, uncomfortable, as if he wasn’t even sure what he was doing in his own body. “I don’t want it.”

“But, Crowley!”

“I changed my mind.” Crowley shook his head once more. “I changed my mind.” And then, without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out of the shop.

“Sorry about that,” said the shopgirl as she wiped her still-wet hands on her apron. “Would you like to purchase the plant?”

Aziraphale looked out the window, where Crowley was already disappearing into the crowd of people running their Saturday errands. “Yes,” he said.

The plant stays on Aziraphale’s desk. Every now and then he catches Crowley looking at it, and he knows he realizes it’s the same one from that failed shopping excursion, but neither of them ever make mention of it. 

But if once makes for an oddity, and twice for a coincidence, it is the third time Aziraphale witnesses Crowley’s reaction to whistling that he realizes this is an ingrained pattern.

And this time it’s Aziraphale’s own fault.

He’d woken up in a grand mood, and decided to keep the bookshop open a full two hours that day so he could share his love of books with the world. There was a fairly steady stream of customers in and out of the shop, and for once, it didn’t irritate Aziraphale; he was content to let them in to wander the shelves (although, of course, he’d taken the precaution of setting the price of each book to four times higher than what they had originally been marked, as to discourage any actual sales). 

Because the bell over the door announcing each customer’s entrance was going off so regularly, Aziraphale didn’t bother looking up when he heard the familiar chime. Instead he continued organizing his latest shipment of books. He wasn’t even aware he’d been whistling until he caught sight of Crowley -- pale, stiff, and entirely unlike himself -- out of the corner of his eye. 

“Crowley,” he said.

Crowley offered a tight, shaky smile. “Hello, Aziraphale.”

More loudly, Aziraphale said, “shop’s closed, I’m afraid! Everybody out. We’ll be open again bright and early on Thursday. Or perhaps Monday around three. Out, out!”

When the shoppers had left, Aziraphale turned his attention back to Crowley. He was holding a tin so tightly his knuckles were turning white, and his lips were moving, as though he were reciting something under his breath.

It felt ridiculous to not acknowledge what had just happened. Crowley had to realize that Aziraphale was aware of his odd reaction. But he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Where would he even begin? _Hello, my dear, it seems you become petrified by the sound of whistling. Would you care to discuss it over a nice cup of cocoa?_

No, he couldn’t do that. Crowley, even this strange, nearly catatonic Crowley, would immediately go on the defensive. He’d laugh it off, deny it, tell Aziraphale he’s imagining things, because why on earth would a _demon _be afraid of _whistling_?

“Aziraphaleaziraphaleaziraphaleaziraphaleazira--”

Aziraphale blinked. “Sorry?”

Crowley gave his head a firm shake and looked up with a broad, false smile. “Aziraphale! How are you?” He held out the tin. “Picked up some biscuits, thought you might be feeling a bit peckish after opening your shop after two weeks off.”

Aziraphale took the tin, noticing with some concern that while Crowley seemed more like his usual self, his hands were still shaking. “Thank you,” he said. He paused. “You know, these would go wonderfully with some cocoa. Won’t you stay for a cup?”

They hadn’t discussed it then, and they still haven’t discussed it now. Fortunately, it’s actually a fairly rare occurrence to hear someone whistling. It’s a sign of casual cheerfulness, which is not an emotion that many humans possess these days. Every so often these memories would pop into Aziraphale’s mind, and he’d wrack his brain to consider all the new things he’d learned about Crowley over the passing millennia, wondering if _somewhere_ he’d dropped a clue that would allow this to all make sense. Alas, Crowley revealed nothing, and Aziraphale was forced to once again tuck this perplexing idiosyncrasy away with all the other details he did not quite understand about him. 

Until today.

They are curled up together on the couch in Aziraphale’s bookshop, Aziraphale reading, Crowley trolling some poor hapless fools on the world wide web via his mobile. It is a perfectly lovely afternoon, and Aziraphale is enjoying the cozy domesticity of it all, when the sound of a bell ringing interrupts their interlude.

Crowley frowns. “I thought the shop was closed.”

“It most certainly is,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t know how anyone could have gotten through the lock.”

And then they hear it.

Whistling.

Crowley’s eyes widen, and he reaches for his sunglasses and hastily shoves them on his face. Aziraphale bites the inside of his cheeks. Crowley never wears his sunglasses in the bookshop anymore, and the fact he feels vulnerable enough to have to take steps to protect himself in this place where they’ve built some of the loveliest memories of their lives makes Aziraphale’s heart clench.

“Wait here,” Aziraphale says, squeezing Crowley’s hand. At first Crowley doesn’t react, but a moment later he grips it tight, so tight Aziraphale is afraid he might break bones. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, his voice hoarse.

“I’m right here, my love,” Aziraphale says. “I just want to get rid of our visitor.”

Crowley nods. His lips are moving, but while no words are coming out, Aziraphale can tell they are forming his name, over and over and over again. It is at that moment Aziraphale realizes Crowley has adopted his name as his own personal mantra, a prayer to protect him in his hour of greatest need.

_The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want._

Is this how God feels when the mortals cry out to Her? Does She feel this same sense of urgency, the same primal need to protect, to wipe away all the wrongs of the world that torment those who do not deserve it? Does She feel the weight of the almighty power entrusted to her? Does it Humble her? Does it make Her stronger? Does She feel rage at those who dare hurt her children? Does She ache to comfort them? 

If no, shouldn’t She?

And if yes, how does She bear it?

So many questions that only one could answer. The All-knowing, the All-wise, the All-powerful, the Author of All Things, the Alpha and the Omega, the _Infinite Spirit _who is in the very air that fills his lungs as he attempts to tamp down his rage and his fear and his sadness. 

And even within him, She is, once again, silent.

Aziraphale understands with devastating clarity just how Crowley fell.

“I’ll be right back,” Aziraphale repeats. He kisses Crowley’s hand, releases his fingers, and then kisses him lightly on the lips. “I’ll be right back.”

He pulls on his his coat and heads to the front of the shop. “I’m afraid we are most definitely closed,” he says, “and I don’t appreciate you violating the sign _and _the locked door that clearly indicated as such.”

“I’ll only be a minute, then I’ll be out of your hair for another millennia.”

“Gabriel.” Aziraphale reaches inside of himself to draw upon the confident, aloof disdain he images Crowley displayed when he went to Heaven to take his punishment for him. “I thought we had come to an agreement.”

“We did, but you know Heaven,” Gabriel says. He opens up his briefcase. “Always paperwork involved.”

Aziraphale takes the pile of papers from him and skims through them. “A contract?”

“Simply putting in writing what you requested.” Gabriel removes a fountain pen from his coat pocket and hands it to Aziraphale. “You are hereby removed of all responsibilities as a Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and, as such, will be stripped of all rights and privileges associated with the position, for the duration of 1,000 years, when terms may be renegotiated with the consent of both parties.”

“I don’t recall agreeing to a term limit,” Aziraphale says. 

Gabriel shrugs. “Standard Celestial Resources policy. All heavenly contracts have to have term limits.”

“You’ll excuse me as I read this closely, then,” Aziraphale says, “as I don’t believe there’s anything remotely standard about this situation.”

“Suit yourself,” Gabriel says. “Although I’m sure you’ll find the contract more than fair.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand why there needs to be a contract at all,” Aziraphale says, “and, frankly, I’m surprised you appeared to deliver it, what with how you nearly discorporated when I merely blew a bit of fire in your general direction.”

Something flickers in Gabriel’s violet eyes, and Aziraphale is pleased to note it rather resembles fear. “I oversee all changes in angelic status.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Am I to take it then that you require all fallen angels to sign such a contract?”

“Of course not,” Gabriel scoffs. “They have no say in the matter. Once an angel is fallen, they’ve fallen. A standard proclamation banning them from the Kingdom of Heaven is more than sufficient to fulfill all the CR requirements.”

“So you damn them to eternal hellfire without even presenting them the opportunity to please their case?”

Gabriel heaves a great sigh and rolls his eyes. “I should have known you’d turn into some demon’s rights activist.”

Aziraphale draws himself to his full height. He no longer has his flaming sword, but in his mind, he is holding it, preparing to charge into battle. “Answer the question, Gabriel.”

“Technically there is an appeals process where the accused would present their case, but generally speaking, the fallen aren’t especially eager to reclaim their seat in Heaven.”

“But some have.”

“Some is probably an exaggeration.”

“One?” Aziraphale asks. He knows the answer, but he wants to hear Gabriel say it.

Gabriel, too, finally seems to understand where the conversation is leading. “Listen, Aziraphale, if this is some bargaining ploy to get your buddy Crowley back into Heaven, it won’t work. Not after all the two of you have done.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Aziraphale says. “Crowley deserves better.”

It takes a moment for Gabriel to process Aziraphale’s words, and when he does, he begins sputtering indignantly. Aziraphale holds up a hand.

“And, for the record, or, I suppose, CR’s records, Crowley is _not _my buddy. He’s my partner.” 

Gabriel’s eyes grow wide. “Being on earth for so long has ruined you, Aziraphale. I don’t even know who you are anymore. Or what you are.”

“Well, whatever I am, I’m afraid this contract simply won’t work for me,” Aziraphale says. He blows a long puff of air onto the papers, and they disintegrate into a pile of ash that slips through his fingers and onto the floor. “But I’m happy to provide a signed proclamation for Celestial Resources. Just to keep everything in order, of course.”

He finds a piece of paper and takes his time writing out what he is willing to give. He wants to drag it out even longer, because he’s enjoying how with each second Gabriel grows more uncomfortable, but he is also aware he is keeping Crowley waiting. Finally, with a flourish, he hands the paper to Gabriel.

“I, Aziraphale, Principality and Guardian of the Eastern Gate, shall retain all of my powers, and live a free life entirely of my choosing, and Heaven shall leave me and my loved ones in peace, in perpetuity,” Gabriel reads aloud. “Aziraphale, come on. You have to give us something.”

“I believe I’ve given you quite enough,” Aziraphale says. “Now leave.”

“CR will never accept this. It’s unheard of.”

“As are, I’m sure, most things written about me in my file,” says Aziraphale. “Would you care to test me? See what other things might be _unheard _of?”

Gabriel tucks the paper into his briefcase. “Goodbye, Aziraphale.”

“Do let CR know if they have any follow up questions, they should send them by way of a dove message,” Aziraphale says. “I won’t have any other angels stepping into this bookshop again.”

Gabriel says nothing, just closes his briefcase and turns toward the door.

“Oh, and Gabriel? You really should stop with that dreadful whistling habit. Terribly uncouth. One might think you were a human child.”

Gabriel freezes for a moment, then quickly exits the shop.

Aziraphale closes his eyes, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. “Crowley,” he calls out as he miracles the door locked, “all is well.”

He heads to the back of the shop, expecting to see Crowley right where he left him, sitting frozen on the couch. When he doesn’t see him, he briefly panics, until he realizes Crowley is just around the corner, intently examining the books on a bookshelf, running a long finger across their spines.

“Crowley,” he repeats, “our visitor is gone.”

“Is he now?” Crowley asks absently.

“And he won’t be back.”

“Hmmm.”

“Crowley.”

“You know, Aziraphale, you really ought to start organizing your books better,” says Crowley. “You have Austen right next to Fitzgerald, and then this gigantic section by Wilde, including some duplicates, might I add. I can’t tell if they’re supposed to be arranged alphabetically by author, or chronologically by the date published, or written, perhaps year written. Or if they’re just by color. Should we move all the blues to be together? Make a rainbow of books, wouldn’t that be stunning?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and places a soft hand on top of Crowley’s. “Let’s leave the books for a moment.”

Crowley exhales, and when he does, his shoulders stay fallen. Slowly, he nods.

“Good, that’s a good dear,” Aziraphale says, and leads him back to the couch. 

They are in the same position as they were before Gabriel arrived, in their usual spots on the couch. Their bodies are touching, and Aziraphale is holding Crowley’s hand. But there is something heavy between them, and Aziraphale doesn’t know how to break through to reach the one who has so thoroughly captured his heart and soul.

He doesn’t particularly want to have this conversation. He doesn’t know how. Six thousand years knowing each other, of being together through great floods and world wars and even a would-be Armageddon, and they’d never quite been in a situation like this. He can’t imagine Crowley being comfortable with anything he wants to say. He might shout, or storm out. He might threaten to never return. And he very well might not. 

But this has gone on long enough. And now that Aziraphale has some knowledge as to the cause of Crowley’s suffering, to leave him to do so alone feels colossally unkind.

And if Crowley can be brave enough to face this every day, on his own, then Aziraphale can be brave enough to begin a conversation.

“That was Gabriel,” he begins. It’s a statement, a fact. A natural place to start. “He had some paperwork he wanted me to sign related to, ah, our agreement.”

Crowley snorts. “Just like Heaven.”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale pauses. “Crowley, was Gabriel the one who cast you out of Heaven?”

Crowley stiffens. “In a manner of speaking, yes, I suppose.”

“They banished all of you during the Great War, and you filed an appeal,” Aziraphale says. “You told them that all you ever did was ask questions, that you’d done nothing wrong. And Gabriel --”

“Denied my appeal, yes.” He adopts a mocking tone. “On account that if I didn’t see I had done anything wrong, I _clearly_ proved their point that I did not belong in Heaven.”

Crowley abruptly stands. His entire body is trembling, and he doesn’t look at Aziraphale. “I had a day. One day, to gather evidence that I did not deserve to fall. They said God Herself would serve as judge. And when I got there, there’s no God. There’s not even the bloody Metatron. It’s just Gabriel. Smiling. And he lets me speak for hours and hours, makes a huge show of reviewing my piles of evidence, then disappears to ‘deliberate.’”

He shakes his head and turns to face Aziraphale. He takes off his sunglasses and wipes his hands down his face, and when he’s done, Aziraphale can see that his eyes are watery and red-rimmed. “I stood there, waiting, and waiting, and _waiting_, and the entire time I could hear him whistling. _Whistling, _Aziraphale,like a bloody canary. And I knew, I _knew _the entire thing was a farce, but they wanted to toy with me. To play with me for their own amusement before damning me.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes.

“I didn’t -- I wasn’t -- I can still hear -- Aziraphale.” Crowley’s voice breaks, and he crumbles, falling to his knees in front of Aziraphale.

Aziraphale draws him in close, one arm around his back, the other running through Crowley’s hair in a way he knows he finds soothing. “Shhh, Crowley, my love. It’s all right. I understand. Shhh.”

Crowley’s sobs are loud, and wrenching, violently born out of the rawest parts of his soul. He clings to Aziraphale, buries his face in his neck, releasing six thousand years’ worth of anger, devastation, fear, and betrayal into the arms of the one who loves him.

Aziraphale drops down off the couch to the floor and spreads his legs so he can pull Crowley closer to him. He rocks him gently, like a child, murmuring soft words of comfort into his ear. They stay in this position for so long that his back starts to ache, but he would gladly stay here, just like this, for all eternity, if it might ease some of the pain Crowley has been harboring.

A long time later, when Aziraphale’s coat is drenched at the shoulder and neck wet with snot and tears, Crowley sniffs and looks up. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” Aziraphale says. He takes his handkerchief out of his coat pocket and gently dabs the tears off Crowley’s face. “It’s not good to keep all that inside of you for so long. You were overdue for a release.” 

Crowley smiles weakly and takes the handkerchief from him. “Made a right mess of you,” he says, wiping Aziraphale’s neck. “Do you want me to miracle away the stains on your coat?”

“It’ll be fine.” Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand. “How are you feeling, love?”

“Right pathetic, for one,” Crowley says. “Bit humiliating to have a meltdown over some bloody whistling. Especially brought on by that stuffed shirt of an archangel.”

“That so called _archangel _was deliberately, unforgivably cruel to you at an intensely vulnerable moment,” Aziraphale says. “He caused you indescribable pain and openly took pleasure in it. It’s no small wonder that reminders of it would cause such a visceral reaction in you.”

“Even after six thousand years? A year, sure. A decade, maybe, if you’re soft. Six thousand years?” Crowley scoffs. 

“Six thousand years of having to live with the consequences of that day. Six thousand years of reliving that moment. And with no one else in the universe who truly understands. No one to share the burden.” Aziraphale takes Crowley’s face in his hands. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, especially in front of me, do you understand?”

Crowley looks down. “You do help, you know.”

“Is that so?”

“Sometimes, if I focus on something that… that makes me feel… the opposite, it helps steady me.”

“Like saying my name?” Aziraphale asks softly.

Crowley nods. “Or reminding myself where I am… I try to memorize every detail of this shop, every trinket, every book, so if I… lose myself, I can instead imagine I’m here, in a place where I am…” His voice trails off.

Aziraphale kisses one hand. “A place where you are safe.” A kiss to the other. “A place where you are loved.” And a kiss on his brow. “And a place where you are always, _always _wanted.”

Tears fill Crowley’s eyes once more but don’t quite fall. “I know this is the part where I’m supposed to say something meaningful and profound, but I’m still feeling a bit shaky. I know there was never any real danger and there’s nothing more they can do, it’s just… once it starts, I have to ride it out. And now it’s rather like the aftershock of an earthquake. Still just rippling through.”

“That’s all right.” Aziraphale draws Crowley in so he’s nearly sitting on his lap and returns to stroking his hair. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Crowley rests his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Aziraphale,” he murmurs as he cuddles closer.

It’s one word, a simple declaration of his name, one that’s been directed at him hundreds of thousands of time. And yet now in it Aziraphale hears so much more. A plea for mercy, for understanding, for shelter. A desire to be safe and loved and needed, exactly how he is. A need to grow. 

A prayer to Aziraphale, in his name, and in his name alone.

God may not have been able to provide Crowley with all these things he so desperately wanted, but Aziraphale can offer them in droves. Freely, without hesitation or regret. In a way that only he, Aziraphale, the only one whom Crowley believes in, can provide. 

And he, who has found all these things and more in loving Crowley, knows all he gives will be returned to him tenfold.

A ray of soft light streams in through the window.

Aziraphale presses a kiss to the top of Crowley’s head. 

_They shall not want. _

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written after I was in a major car accident and began experiencing attacks similar to Crowley's here whenever I got behind the wheel of a car. Frequently I found myself wishing I had Aziraphale to give me a hug during those moments, because, let's face it, you KNOW he gives incredible hugs. I ended up writing this as a shameless self-insert, because if Aziraphale couldn't hug _me_ during my breakdowns, he could certainly hug Crowley. 
> 
> This story was very therapeutic for me, and I thank you very much for reading it. <3
> 
> If you're inclined to join me in all my Good Omens giddiness, I'm [xoxoemynn](xoxoemynn.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.


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